


Are you the guys hiding out in the attic?

by Beetlewhy



Category: Beetlejuice (1988), Beetlejuice - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:47:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24694006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beetlewhy/pseuds/Beetlewhy
Summary: The Maitlands have departed to the waiting room. Leaving Lydia alone to explore the attic and its contents. This also left a certain ghost to do nothing but watch her for the next three months. What happened in that time?
Relationships: Beetlejuice/Lydia Deetz
Comments: 3
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

_July 16, 1988_

A hot July in the country in the middle of the day was not something that would be pleasant to any person. It was moving and construction day for the new family invading the towering Victorian farmhouse. It was hot, noisy, and neighbors were gathering at the foot of the hill that lead to the white house. The onlookers were curious about the city folk who moved to their small town, Winter River, and watched in sadness as the house that belonged to the previous lovely couple was being plundered.

Sitting in silence by packed boxes lying on the lawn of her new home was a young girl named Lydia Deetz, pale and petite with big brown eyes. She was dressed in black in a non-form fitting dress with a giant black sunhat shielding her from the sun. Holding her beloved Nikon camera and flash in her small hands, she observed workers desecrating the farmhouse. Molding it something that was suited more for her stepmother Delia’s postmodern taste. It was a shame, Lydia liked the ambience of the antique house. She could feel it held secrets, but it would be forever silenced by tacky interior design.

  
Lydia understood why her stepmother wanted to gut out everything. Delia was a true Metropolitan woman. She refused to give up the city lifestyle even if her husband, Charles, wanted to come out to the country in Connecticut. She may have left her artistic friends and social circle behind, but she wasn’t going to be denied her room to create unconventional artwork. When Charles announced to the two Deetz women that they were moving to the middle of nowhere, it was not a family friendly conversation that night between the man and wife.

  
Deciding it was boring just standing around and doing nothing, Lydia decided to take pictures. Watching workers go by and take all the antique furniture, Lydia decided the scene before her could make a good portfolio theme. _**Apathy**_.

  
Left and right unconcern men were carrying the previous homeowners’ heirlooms and just throwing it in the Goodwill truck. Meanwhile Otho was instructing the workers where things needed to be placed and taken. Organic flow thru and all that she guessed.

  
Delia was screaming of her misplaced sculpture being used as a wrecking ball and dad was yelling as said sculpture crashed into a window. It caused havoc once again and trapped Delia against the barn wall. Screaming it was “ _dangerous_ ” art as movers were trying to remove the piece off her. Knew there was a reason that was a favorite of hers’ out of her stepmother’s pieces. Chaos was around her, flowing through and not caring who gets in the way.

  
All the mayhem made for some interesting shots. As she kept taking pictures, Lydia was trying to remember if she saw the town’s cemetery as they drove by. _Wonder how far along it is from the house?_ She’ll look it up later at the town’s library. Spooky and scary go hand in hand to a girl who was considered strange and unusual. Deciding she didn’t get any shots of the destruction up on the roof, she pointed her camera farther up toward the attic’s opened window.  
  
Two people were staring down at her. A man and a woman, clearly not part of the construction crew or movers. Both looked like they were in their 30’s and had kind faces. The woman had big, brown curly hair with delicate facial features and the man wearing glasses had a strong jaw. Were they squatters? They didn’t look like it—looked like they belonged there. Their faces were showing despair at the destruction of the beautiful house. Lydia remembered overhearing her dad talk to Jane the Realtor about that the house belonged to a couple. It couldn’t be them....? Right?

  
Speak of the devil; Jane herself was pulling up to the dirt driveway in her station wagon with a little girl inside. Probably her daughter, dressed in a yellow sweater dress; same outfit as Janes’. She honked for the neighbors to move out of the way and grabbed Lydia’s attention for a mere second. As soon as she turned back to the attic window, the couple were gone.

  
She trotted up to the realtor’s car as the woman rolled down her window. The girl in black was curious, “What happen to people who use to live here?” The daughter replied thru the glass window as she looked up and down at Lydia, “They drowned!” Well that was news. “Yes, they were family. I was devastated.” _Funny, you don’t look that much choked up about it._ Lydia encountered one too many times people like Jane—nice and friendly on the outside, but rotten and two faced on the inside. She could smell Jane’s fakeness a mile a minute.  
  
Jane pulled an old, brass key from her yellow, frumpy bag and handed it to Lydia. “Is this the key to the attic?”, the weight of it heavy in Lydia’s hands. She got curiouser and curiouser about what could be up in the attic or more who could be there. “That’s a skeleton key that will open any door in that house. Make sure you give that to your father.” Charles would be preoccupied calming himself down after having a near-death experience from his wife’s so-called art. _Dad won’t want to be bothered for a few hours and he’ll take a couple of valiums to chill before he’ll consider talking to me, if at all._

  
Taking a part of the house off from her Dad and stepmother's hands didn’t seem to be a bad idea. Would give her a chance to explore the only untouched room of the house and see if there were any ghastly secrets the previous couple hid. Maybe a skeleton in a trunk.

  
As Lydia turned to leave, Jane handed the girl her realtor business card. Jane figured if she could get a New Yorker and his family down here, she could hope his upstate friends would also be interested in buying property in this sleepy town. Could make a fortune off those city folks. A bit of price gouging never hurt her wallet.

  
Lydia rolled her eyes as she took Janes’ card and walked towards the farmhouse; throwing the card into a trashcan full of the movers' discarded cigarettes. Walking past the men steaming the wallpaper off, the girl ascended the staircase leading to the attic. She was nervous, what if there were squatters up there and they were crazy and killed her? What an awesome way to go. Murder victim. It was now or never; she was in front of the attic door. Pushing the key into the slot, she started to turn it until she felt resistance.  
Manhandling the key to turn, she figured that whoever was up here was pushing up on the door. She could hear on the other side of the door television static, followed by a man’s muffled voice. His fake Texan accent was atrocious. Sounded like he smoked cigars since he was eight. Then silence. Deciding to see what happens, Lydia let go of the key while it was still in the slot. Sure enough, it popped right out and fell on the floor.  
  
Creaky floorboards could be heard on the other side as she tried to peep through the keyhole. All she could see was furniture covered up by white sheets. A green glow slowly enveloped the room as far as she could see and through the crack of the door. Goosebumps and instincts were flaring. Lydia was attuned to the supernatural as far as she could remember. Seen things a young teenager should not see but she never felt or saw something like she was witnessing. As soon as the glow and feeling came, they passed just as quickly. Grumbling to herself, “Great, we’re stuck in a haunted house.”  
  
Still, her curiosity needed to be sated. Running downstairs, she asked one of the workers if she could borrow a flathead. Thanking him and ignoring his side eye of her profile as she dashed like death’s shadow, ready to pick and lock. There was an advantage of watching dad unlocking abandoned homes to remove squatters and the homeless.

  
Hitting the handle of the screwdriver with enough force that her little body held, she successfully opened the attic door. The air was stale and surprisingly cool for an attic in late summer. Finding the switch, the light fixtures turned on to reveal a table that held a model of Winter River.

  
It was breathtaking. Everything was done by hand, cared for, and delicately loved. No stone left unturned of the miniature landscape to get the exact detail of the small town. Down to the last tree in the park to the old bridge before it reached her new home.

  
She was scared that she could damage the model. Let alone pick up anything to study its contents more closely. Walking further into the room and ready to unearth the attics unseen treasures, Lydia’s eye caught a book sitting idly on the covered coffee table. “Handbook for the Recently Deceased.”, she muttered as she picked it up. Flipping through the pages, already engrossed, the young girl didn’t notice the presence of ancient, malicious, eyes gazing up on her slight form.  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live! Thank you everyone who have given me kudos and bookmarked me. I've never written for fanfic before so this is a new territory for me and I want to make it perfect. I've written at least 4 chapters, a couple of one shots, fiddle with prompt ideas and need to edit them. That's why I was so behind on the updating for the last couple of months. Please enjoy!

_**“Chapter 32 of the Handbook of the Recently Deceased: spectral manifestation can interact with other spectrals with full powers aware. Unless limited by the Neitherworld Burceracy. Living bodies cannot see or act upon interaction with the dead. Clause**_ _**: spiritual manifestation can interact with the living beings who are sensitive to the paranormal.”** _

July 18, 1988

_Damn it, fucking damn it._ Two days since the white breads finally figured out how to properly read the book and get through the door. “Hope they get bored to death again in the waiting room.”, the ghoulish figure stomping another one of his favorite cigs out after throwing his tantrum.

Betelgeuse was not happy. Wanting to tear out the remaining tangled blond hair out from his premature balding head at the kink in his plans. Leaning against his makeshift tombstone, he conjuried a new cigarette, taking six huffs before throwing the cancer stick on the ground and juicing another one.

_Fuck this curse, fuck Juno, fuck my afterlife, fuck everything._ His powers were chained by the laws of the dead. Only manifesting a fraction of what he was truly capable of. Doing only parlour tricks and shit that a mediocre warlock could pull off. He’s tried cutting off his right index finger that held his collar in the form of a cabochon ruby ring. But the damn piece of jewelry and finger came back attached to him every single time he mutilated himself.

Just because he sent a few breathers sent to the neitherworld prematurely. That cult didn’t know who they were fucking with.

_They deserved it._

Never try to trap the juice man with baby sacrifices. He was just being a good samaritan by killing those sick fucks, but no. The powers up their asses says killing fleshies was a no-no.

Being a centuries old ghost gave him access to powers humans would lust after. He could conquer the world and all that cliche bullshit. He didn’t give two damns about that. Let him have his beer, a girl on each arm, and the occasional murder and he was good to go. Betelgeuse considered himself to be above all ghostly entities. Especially those filling the office space at the bureaucracy of the dead. Flipping the finger at fate as it would not hold down this ghost to a dead end job. Heh, puns, you know he loved them.

Back to his problem! He was currently stuck in a shitty miniature model in a shitty house in the middle of ass backwards nowhere. The only upside to the model problem was that it had a cemetery where he set up his digs and can relax in his coffin. But he had nothing to do for two weeks! _The Afterlife Gazette_ was on the same time schedule as the rest of the neitherworld. One day in the afterlife equaled to two weeks in the living world. Now he couldn’t check out any of the other deadbeats to mooch. It was easier to scam young ghosts out of their haunting years and perimeter. Too many regrets of what they didn’t get to do versus old farts who’ve made peace with their deaths and were ready to move on.

No paper meant turning to tv and he got shit reception and couldn’t watch his favorite brain dead programs. Sleep wasn’t an option either. Pfft...like the dead need sleep. Too many night terrors for his liking. Having a masturbation marathon would make his dick fall off, literally. Couldn’t hang out in the neitherworld for another 74 years— like he wanted to go to that dump.

After huffing 7 more cigarettes, his chain smoking was starting to cloud his vision. Taking a big deep breath, his beer belly expanded as he sucked up the nicotine cloud. “Tobacco tastes even better when it clogs up your unworking lungs.”, smacking his filthy gums in an obnoxious sound.

So now he was just watching some girl pilfering the Maitlands junk and shit. The only company he could get was one who didn't even notice him. A little girl in black. She didn’t look no older than 15 at most. Couldn’t tell if she had boobs under the ugly dress of hers. Made her look like a shadow. Probably was flat chested. Not enough meat for him to grab anyway. Though she was a pretty, young thing. Naughty too. Looking through other people's stuff without permission. Tsk tsk. If she dared looked through his stuff, he’d give her a spanking.

All she did everyday since she discovered the attic was look at the junk piled up here and read a chapter from the handbook. Her exploring found pottery vases, wood repairing kits, and other dead hobby trinkets. Today she found a trunk full of baby clothes and toys. Opening the bright blue case, she pulled out pacifiers, rattlers, ultrasound pictures, pink blankets, and white baby clothes. After carefully examining the contents, the girl returned the items back into the trunk labeled _Celia_.

Watching as she moved from one dead memory to the next, Betelgeuse leaned against the plastic dead oak tree. Chuckling, “Little kitty, don’t you know it's rude to pry through people’s memories without permission. A big, bad bastard could catch you and do terrible things.” They say curiosity killed the cat and little kitty over yonder just wanted to get her little paws on everything.

Lydia always had a bad habit of looking through people’s things without asking. She never meant harm by it. Since she was little she would look through her parents, playmates, and other acquaintances purses, pockets, bags, etc. No one wanted to talk to her and she wanted to understand the people around her by looking through their stuff.

Unfortunately, that gave people the assumption that she was a thief. A trip to the hospital with a broken arm by the hands of one of her mother’s bohemian friends had stopped her wandering hands and sticky fingers. Finding a gram of cocaine when he was dealing apparently gave the asshole an excuse to put his hands on her and teach her a ‘lesson’ to not touch things that didn’t belong to her. Fucker only got six months at Rikers since it was known he dealt to legal higher ups.

Not wanting to dwell on an unpleasant memory, Lydia started to fluff out the dust from the sheets covering the couch. Plopping herself onto the furniture to catch her breath. Letting out a dramatic sigh, she leaned backwards with one arm in the air and the other to cover her face. “Shall I ever find the contents of my husbands’ misdeeds or will I be doomed to be searching as the madwoman everyone claims for me to be? I saw the two here. Could they be his secret lovers or are they his prisoners while I remained ignorant? Oh, please good spirits show this madwoman of your presence.”, finishing her monologue from out of nowhere.

Lydia's predicament starkly reminded her of the many mystery Victorian novels she used to entertain herself with when she was shooed away by her relatives. The wife or nanny of the stories would question their sanity after seeing something strange after coming to the new house of their master and/or lover. The lover of the women would brush off their concerns, gaslighting them. But there was no lover, only a lonely girl who talks to herself.

_The fuck is this girl on?_ Chuckling to himself, “Well, I may get some entertainment out of this yet. Gotta say darlin, I’ve seen plenty of madwomen in my life and afterlife but you just took the cake. Who’s the poor bastard that married your crazy ass?” Huffing out another smoke, he wondered what kind of teenager starts to spew out shit like they came out of some southern gothic trash dime novel. Well, apparently this teenager is one of those.

Unaware of the boogeyman bad mouthing her, Lydia sat up and pulled out the Handbook from under the couch. Brushing the dust off the hard jacket of the book, the girl opened the crisp pages to read another chapter of death and all its horrid secrets. While the girl was off in her own little world where the macabre ruled her head, the other disturbed mind in the miniature model got an idea for a prank. Well, in his own terms, it was tame as it comes. When she was moving all the crap around the attic, she left a small half-assed made vase on top of a sitting stool.

Seeing the opportunity to give the little raven a spook, Betelgeuse moved his finger to string the vase off the edge of the stool. A resounding crash of ceramic shattered and fell to the floor. Grabbed the attention of Miss Dreary away from the Handbook as she let out a gasp from the sudden noise. Setting the book down, Lydia stood up from the couch. Clutching her black dress for comfort as she took a gulp, “Is anyone up here?” No answer.

Thinking to reworded her question, “Is anyone unalive up here? If you are the two people I saw a couple of days ago in the window, I’m sorry I’m in your space.” Silence was the only reply Lydia received. “Can you answer me? I’m sorry I was looking through your stuff. I got curious and wanted to see if you had any skeletons. Like, actual skeletons. You don’t have to be afraid.” _Yeah Lydia, like ghosts are gonna be scared of you. Just creeped out like everybody else is._

“Ha, me! Be afraid of a little girl like you! That’s a good one.” Betlguese was cackling while holding onto his gut from the sheer audacity that she thought she could scare the ghost with the most! The skeleton crack was only slightly funny. Figuring he got her full attention, “Little raven, you haven’t seen scared just yet.” Focusing his energy, he tried to summon a horde of bats to make them settle in that midnight hair of hers.

Nothing.

_Fuck._

Cockroaches from every crack in the attic.

Nada.

Snakes slithering out from under the couches and the model.

Zero.

_Shit._

Remembering that having a limiter, well limits your unholy powers, Betelgeuse proceeded to stomp on the makeshift-cardboard graveyard, bellowing. “God **fuckin** damn it! Why did you get me all worked up, you **brat**! You like throwing your aliveness around for dead guys like me to tease and saunter! **Brat! Little Bitch!** ”

_Doesn’t do any good when the person you’re throwing the tantrum at can’t even hear you._ That little voice of reasoning that was tucked under 300 ft under all the grime and filth of his mind made its way to his head. “Shut up conciseness! No one asked for your logic!” After one last foot stomp that got his foot stuck in the cardboard, after yelling out another obscenity, Betelgeuse groaned in frustration as he made a knocking gesture.

Out of the silence came a soft rapping. Lydia turned her head to find the source as it sounded it came from everywhere.

_**Knock Knock Knock** _

“Are you the couple I saw up here a few days ago? One knock for yes, two for no.” Betelgeuse rolled his eyes at her question, "No dumbass, its Santa Claus.". Regardless, he made his knocking gesture once again.

_**Knock** _

“Can you show yourself to me again?”

_**Knock Knock** _

“I would ask your names and how you died, but that’s kinda rude, isn't it? And I don’t know Morse code.” The girl cringed at her own lame joke. Betelgeuse wanted to tell the brat that she wasn’t funny. That it was her fault his foot was stuck in cardboard. She was just a weird kid with zero taste in fashion, lame humor, and was a ugly bitch. But a small smirk curled his lips and the words flowed out of his slimy mouth before he had a chance to process what he was saying.

“How are you doing, baby! I’m the ghost with most, the neitherworld number one pain the ass and prisoner of a stupid ass curse that totally, most definitely, not deserved to put upon yours truly.”

“I’m Lydia.” Cursing again for his tongue to held by the hex, uttered his name in his mind that all undead beings have come to fear: _Betelgeuse_


End file.
